


You Got Your Reviewer in My Assassinchef

by meh_guh



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meh_guh/pseuds/meh_guh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'We all gotta eat, kiddo,' John's mother used to say to him. You might not be able to change the world, but you <i>can</i> change one person's day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/gifts).



> Inspired by leupagus's wonderful sketch of a restaurant AU http://leupagus.tumblr.com/post/46459044904/source-okay-seriously-though-can-we-talk-about, but not following too closely because 1) she's writing it and it's hers, and 2) I was a little drunk when I read it and got started while I was misremembering key parts of the setup. I based John's enlistment time on Caveez's age, so he wound up in Desert Storm. I have no idea if the Celebrity Chef thing happens this way now, or if it happened that way in the 90s, just shhh. Go with it.  
> Title is an attempted joke with the Reese's 'you got your peanut in my chocolate' thing, IDK.

'No matter how sad someone is,' John remembers his mother explaining to him, floury to the elbows and shooting him a sideways smile as she kneaded, 'having someone take the time to make something for them will take them out of the grief for a moment. And if _you're_ sad, making someone smile is sometimes the best way to get happy,' she paused then, leaning into the dough for a moment before slinging her arm around John's neck. 'And we all gotta eat, kiddo.'

It's his overwhelming memory of her: making people happy with a bundt cake or a casserole. Right up until the end, his mother was a fixture in the kitchen with a quiet smile and a generous heart.

So when he's sitting in the recruiter's office, his entire life packed into a duffle by his feet and his head still ringing from the gentle exhotations of the priest not to despair but to _rejoice_ that his mother's pain is over; when he's asked what career path he's interested in, John blinks twice and says 'Cooking.'

****

There's Basic first, of course, and that's enough of a distraction that John slides past the worst of his grief mostly-intact. He's too busy with PT and inspections and keeping his head down to break down, and by the time he's marching out he's come to grips with his loss without quite noticing.

His mother wanted to make the world a happier place by filling bellies; John's determined to continue her legacy.

He's done well enough that the conversation with the colonel about perhaps pursuing combat training isn't in any way surprising, but he's determined. Mom would be proud of him for helping, but he can't even bring himself to picture the look on her face if he went into killing.

No; you can't change the world, but you can change one person's day.

John's going to feed people who need it, not eliminate people who may or may not deserve it.

****

It was a great idea, but combat doesn't ask whether you're front-line or support staff.

They're killing time, horsing around in the Kuwaiti sun, watching black smoke spiral up in the distance and making jokes about the smell . MPs and techs and all the myriad non-combat parts keeping the _”real”_ soldiers going laughing and decompressing with a little b-ball. Command have said the Iraqis are pulling back so quick they're leaving their pants behind, so there's time to have a little fun before Stormin' Norman flattens the pedal to the floor and hoons over the border to finish this mess off.

They're never quite off-duty, though, and when the kid with the gun interrupts John's pick-up game, he reacts like the grunt they ground him into and tackles the threat away from his comrades. John's hands close around wrists that feel like wire-wrapped twigs.

The kid looks about twelve, except for his eyes. When they struggle for the gun, it's almost no contest given the difference in their sizes and the however-many dollars the US government spent turning John into a soldier. When he forces the gun down and towards the kid's jaw, the kid snarls up at John before tightening his own finger on the trigger.

He's told he saved his friends. He's told it was the right thing to do. He's slapped on the back and handed the candy from four different guys' MREs, but John knows from the second the kid's finger shifted that he made the wrong choice. The army does good, but he needs out.

The next three years both drag and fly by. He learns how to brawl from bored Marines and drunken rednecks. Swaps recipes with a corporal named Valentino; learns his nonna's secret lasagne in trade for John's mother's baked custard. Spends every off-duty moment scouring recipe books and trying not to think. Stateside postings might just be the worst part of the job; close enough to normal to smell it, but stifled by regs.

John loses the little baby fat he'd retained and gains the final four inches in height. He earns two black marks and a total of eighteen stitches for intervening in fights. He learns how to laugh at death and ignore emotions beyond humour and aggression.

He finds himself with an undesirable reputation and a stomach full of regrets, so when the opportunity finally comes, John grabs the discharge with both hands, jumps on the first bus out of town, staring out the window at nothing and sending ironic thanks to the army for inuring him to stench every time the toilet door swings open. 

Four days later, John finds himself standing at the edge of a manicured lawn staring at red brick and white columns, brow furrowed and hands clenched.

He lost his way for a bit, but dammit, his mother _will_ be proud of him.

****

Of course, cooking school is in a lot of ways tougher than the army. Drill Sergents never expected him to be able to differentiate between ten wines by smell or twenty cuts of meat by texture.

John loses a dozen sauces to over-saltiness, trained by the preferences of grunts into over-seasoning. He butchers his first butchery class (though after a studious night sharpening his knives, he does get the highest grade in the class on his retest). He discovers an unguessed affinity for desserts, and actually makes one instructor cry in his second year with a lavender and honey pannacotta.

It's completely by accident that Jake Fioretti and his production team find John. He's in one of the kitchens, practising gueridon tricks while his souffle rises, juggling knives and twirling in place when a brash voice startles him into dropping a $100 santoku onto a stainless steel bench, ruining the edge.

'You ever worked on TV, boy?' the brash voice shouts, and John's suddenly crowded against a stove by a guy eight inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than him. 'I'm gonna make you a star!'

John blinks at him, looks up at the... entorage?... crowded in the doorway, and offers a bemused smile. 'Are you looking for someone?'

Jake Fioretti grins, ten thousand dollars' worth of dentistry on dazzling display. 'Kid, I just found him.'

****

John's a bit bemused at the speed with which Fioretti gets things set up. The studio lights are painfully bright and punishingly hot, and for some reason smirking girls with aprons on keep smearing orange powder all over his face.

He has to tell the blinking red lights on the cameras not to try tossing blades around at home about ten times an episode, usually while flipping a butcher's knife around his fingers.

Endorsements flood in, and John ~~has to~~ _gets to_ tour all the daytime shows to talk about flair and presentation in cooking. He turns down fifteen book deals and uncounted requests for interviews.

Oprah calls him the “bright new face of cooking”.

He never wanted this.

****

Fame is everything John feared it would be, and he loathes every minute under the hotlamps, grinning inanely for the seventieth take of how to dice a fucking potato.

The world has gone _crazy_ around him; there are personal assistants, and producers, and paparazzi, and _image consultants_ , and all John ever wanted to do was to make people smile when they had no other reason.

It's absurdly complicated to extricate himself, but John perseveres. Goes so far as to change his name by deed poll to buy a little time. “John” is harmless enough, so he keeps that (and the ever-fainter echo of his mother's voice saying “Johnny” whenever anyone calls him), and the last ad he saw was for Reese's Pieces, so that's what John puts on the form.

'That'll be $65,' the clerk says, and John hands over four twenties.

He buys a bottle of Santory whiskey on his way home and toasts his own failure.


	2. Chapter 2

Even after the fine for breaking his contract, there's still an absurdly large number in his checking account, so John takes a break for a few months. Holes up in his apartment with a case of whiskey and a handful of Chinese menus while he tries to figure out what to do.

Eventually, though, the whiskey runs out and the walls start to close in, so he pulls on a pair of shoes and heads out into the city.

He rides the F train for an hour or so, watching people avoid watching him. It's not settling his nerves, though, so John gets off at Houston Street and stomps around aimlessly for a while.

He's starting to get hungry by the time he notices the diner with the ratty “for sale” sign in the window. The sign looks like it's been there since before Giuliani, and through the mess of band posters and graffiti John can see his future.

The place is empty except for a scowling waitress, cigarette hanging out of one corner of her mouth and dropping ash on the pitted Formica counter. She's amusing herself by smearing the ash into abstract patters with a dish towel, and the look she gives John when he slides onto a stool is so poisonous he finds himself grinning right back.

'You want something?' she says, making no move towards the empty coffee pot.

'The sign in the window,' John replies, folding his hands. 'The boss around?'

Grace, or so her name tag says, snorts and half turns to holler 'Jimmy!'

John grins wider at the navy-level cursing coming from the service window. The face that pokes through a minute or so later is even more pissy than Grace's.

'I ain't cooking you no damn salads, woman!' Jimmy snaps, then catches sight of John. He looks startled to see a customer, and John just waits patiently as Grace gives Jimmy an explanation.

It's a shitty location, and the diner isn't winning any charm or character awards any time soon, but it's only a few weeks before the place is John's. Grace decides to stay on, though she flat refuses to help John repaint the place.

John bows to his training enough to strip the kitchen and install state of the art equipment, but aside from his amateur paint job he leaves the restaurant untouched. Well, apart from a new coffee maker.

Grace pulls a face at him, but slides her arm into John's when he steps back to the edge of the pavement to stare at his diner.

'Sure you won't rename it?' she says around the ever-present cigarette. 'I've got a cousin does sign painting-'

'I'm not calling it Reese's Pieces, Grace,' John smirks down at her. 'I couldn't afford the lawsuit.'

Grace rolls her eyes, and John takes her inside to feed her celebratory cherry pie.

****

Of course, because Grace is the face of the diner, everyone winds up calling it Reese's Pieces anyway, regardless of what the sign says. She drags her endless series of cousins in to get fed, and somehow the trickle of family turns into a torrent of locals after a few weeks.

Business picks up so much Grace bullies John into hiring another four waitresses. He leaves the selection and training entirely up to her, letting his eyes crinkle when she narrows hers at him. She reminds him of the drill sergeants at basic, with less PT but even more shouting.

The sudden influx of cops is a surprise, since the closest precinct is ten blocks away, but John likes them for the most part. They've got the same sense of black humour and camaraderie as the army, and they're up at all hours.

****

John accidentally adopts Lionel one evening, after he's finished scrubbing the kitchen down and is trying to stretch the ache out of his back. He wanders into the diner to find one of Grace's protégés, Judy, perched on a table and chatting to a guy who looks like a bloodhound. Five seconds of observation is enough to let John know this is one of the cops, and ten seconds is long enough to pick up on Judy's interest in the guy.

'You think the back of your skirt has antimicrobial properties?' John says when he's directly behind the cop. The cop jumps, hand groping for his weapon, but Judy just flips John off.

'No one's eating off it tonight,' she flips her ponytail around and snaps her gum. 'It'll be clean before we lock up, Johnny-boy.'

John lets his lips twitch up, and turns his attention to the cop. 'You getting the service you need? I'm John, the owner.'

'Lionel likes your pecan pie,' Judy says at the same time as Lionel says 'Detective Fusco.'

John gives him a sunny grin, always pleased when someone likes his food and goes to carve off an oversize portion. Lionel startles when John thunks the pie (complete with vanilla bean cream and presentation strawberry) in front of him, and actually blushes when John hands over a pair of forks.

'Lock up when you're done,' John tells Judy's triumphant smirk. 'And clean up any mess you two make.'

****

Lionel's back the next day, and the one after that, and every day for a month straight. Sometimes to see Judy, but also to hang around one of the booths drinking ulcer-inducing amounts of coffee and ploughing through pie after pie.

John starts making special For Lionel pies after the first week, tweaking the recipe and peering through the service hatch until he hits on the perfect combination of ingredients to make Lionel freeze and smile delightedly at his plate. Grace, Felicia, Romy and Shantay all mock John mercilessly, but Judy starts giving him pleased little smiles and bullies her cousin to come in to be the dish pig the eighth time one of John's choices quits.

The kid is skinny as a rake and full of twitchy energy, which comes in useful once John and Judy have indoctrinated him in the Way of the Clean Dish. He insists on being called T-Bone, John cannot fathom _why_ , but he's good at the job and he doesn't like pie, so John comes up with a special pancake recipe. T-Bone eats his weight in pancakes weekly, and when he starts to fill out John can't help the flush of paternal pride.

Lionel proposes to Judy after six months, and a week after that they drag John down to the registry.

'Neither of us have family,' Judy tells him from behind a veil, though she's wearing a leather mini skirt and a wraparound blouse. 'And there's no point throwing a big, expensive party when you see the people you care about every day. We need a witness, but I'm really thinking of you as giving me away,' Judy says, tossing her head and pretending it's casual.

John chokes up when she slides her arm into his, and his eyes slide over to Lionel's. Lionel grins and says 'Plus we figured you'd cook us a reception afterwards. I wanna try those pancakes you've been making for T-Bone.'

John laughs, and he can't stop grinning for the rest of the day.

****

The first time Joss Carter comes in, she's holding a dish towel against Lionel's head and bitching him out. The bitching-out John can get behind, but the dish towel is a new one.

'Something happen to you, Lionel?' he asks from behind them, relishing as always the way Lionel twitches. His friend (partner? John's going to guess partner) whirls in concert, hand flying to her holster before dropping back to her side. Her unimpressed look is a match for even Judy's, and John starts mentally designing a cake for the woman. Something complicated and rich; a coffee and hazelnut mudcake, maybe.

She turns the unimpressed look on Lionel and hands him the dish towel. 'I still say a hospital's a better call than a short stack, but hey, I ain't your mother, Fusco.'

'Lionel likes waffles,' John says helpfully, shuffling the two of them towards a booth. 'And a malt. Can I get you something, detective?'

She purses her lips, gives John a once-over. 'Sure. I'll take a coffee and a doughnut.'

John sends Judy over to drag her husband into the kitchen for first aid and collects two cups of coffee and a doughnut from Shantay. He slides into the booth opposite Lionel's partner and holds out his hand.

'I'm John,' he gives her his widest, most friendly smile. 'Lionel's wife's boss.'

'Carter,' she shakes his hand. 'She know first aid enough to get him proper help if he needs it?'

John glances towards the kitchen door and shrugs. 'She likes him enough to want to keep him.'

Carter barks a startled laugh and picks up her coffee. 'Yeah, I see why he comes here.'

John raises his eyebrows, playing hurt. 'But detective, you haven't even _tried_ my food yet.'

Carter sits back. 'So feed me, John.'

John smiles. 'OK.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er... Grace wasn't _meant_ to be Harold's Grace when I was writing this, I just had a spectacular brain fart and now if you care you can vote on whether I rename her, make her the show's Grace somehow, or leave it.  
>  (I am such a raging twit sometimes, I swear to god...)


	3. Chapter 3

John's locking up one night when Zoe staggers through the door and collapses on the counter.

'Sorry,' John flips the kitchen lights off. 'We're not a 24 hour establishment.'

'Jonathan Felix... Reese,' she turns her head to snap. 'If you don't caffeinate me and provide pie in the next ten seconds, there will be hell to pay.'

John frowns at her, and Zoe pushes her hair off her face to grin.

'Zoe Morgan?' John blinks in startled delight. Zoe had easily been the most fun part of his brief foray into celebrity chef-hood, always turning up unexpectedly with A-listers and VIPs crowded around her like baby ducks. Not to mention the handful of nights they'd shared in five star hotels. 'What are you doing here?'

'Dying of lack of chocolate at the moment,' Zoe turns, resting her elbows against the bench and arching her back slightly. 'I just got off the most appalling flight, I demand chocolate.'

'What the lady wants,' John goes and flicks the lock on the entrance. 'The lady gets.'

He goes into the kitchen and finds a chocolate banana cream pie he'd been meaning to try out on Shantay, grabs a bottle of powdered chipotle and gives it a liberal dusting before carving off a generous slice. For hot chocolate, he raids Grace's Swiss Miss in place of anything more time-consuming, and sets the plate in front of Zoe with a flourish and a grin.

'You always did _so well_ under pressure,' Zoe smirks up at him, then devotes a gratifying amount of attention to the pie. John watches her, pleased at the way her shoulders relax and her back straightens after the first bite.

He laughs at the pout she aims his way when she tries a mouthful of the hot chocolate. 'Tomorrow I'll have something of a proper quality.'

Her lips quirk. 'You'd better. But well done on improvising the pie.'

John gives her a bow, already plotting out a series of desserts to keep ready for Zoe. A tangy lemon crème, maybe, and a variety of spiced macaroons. It really wouldn't do to let her get bored. Zoe is _so very unpredictable_ when she's bored.

****

'Aww yes!' Felicia pumps her fist after dropping off a stack of plates with T-Bone. 'Moneybags Eggs Benedict's here again!'

John starts assembling the guy's breakfast automatically, when Felicia says 'Times two, John. He brought a _friend_.'

Curious, John slides over to the service hatch. Moneybags Eggs Benedict always eats alone, drops a $40 tip on his $10 breakfast and leaves without saying more than ten words total. He never even looks too impressed by the food, but he keeps coming back and he keeps ordering the same thing.

Moneybags Eggs Benedict is sitting in his usual booth, hands folded on the table and his weird sweetened tea already there. Across from him is a man in a suit that looks like it cost the gross national product of one of the smaller countries, sprawled comfortably across the whole of his side of the booth. The new guy is swigging coffee and grinning, and Moneybags Eggs Benedict looks a little less tense than usual. Clearly they're good friends.

John smirks as Felicia saunters over to refresh the friend's coffee, hips swaying like a burlesque show. The friend turns a dazzling smile on her, and Moneybags Eggs Benedict's lips turn ever so faintly down.

Felicia bursts back into the kitchen, theatrically fanning herself and cocks a hip against the stove. 'Moneybags' name is Harold, and _Nathan_ has been teasing him for coming to such a low-rent place for breakfast.'

John plates the eggs up for her. 'Did you tell him Harold comes for the scenery?'

'Didn't have to, Nathan saw the light on his own,' she flashes him a wink, then she's gone again.

Less than a minute later, the kitchen door bangs open to let Nathan in.

'What the hell are you doing in a place like this?' he demands, a little Hollandaise smeared over his top lip. 'Good god, man, where did Harold _find_ you?!'

John flips the final pancake onto a shortstack and hands the plate to Felicia through the hatch. 'You like the eggs, then?'

Nathan blinks a few times, and laughs. 'Sorry, yes. They're fantastic. I'm Nathan Ingram and I'd like to back your new restaurant.'

John cracks a couple of eggs and gives T-Bone the gesture for “toast goes on please”. 'We getting bought out by developers and no one told me?'

He plates up another pair of short stacks and some waffles, and Nathan passes them through to Felicia with a wink he probably thinks John can't see.

'Don't you _want_ a more prestigious restaurant?' Nathan cocks his head to the side. 'Anyone who can get repeat business from _Harold_ could easily get a couple of stars.'

There's the usual flush of pride that he's making someone happy, but John feels a little annoyed that this man has such a wrong-headed idea of what John's doing.

'Your eggs'll be ruined if you don't go eat them,' he collects his mid-morning coffee from the service hatch and smooths the orders down on his spike.

Nathan's eyes narrow. 'OK, not interested in fame. And you own this place,' he retreats towards the door, then pauses. 'Oh, and Harold says the Hollandaise needs tweaking and your baker's sour dough is going bad. Just FYI.'

John angles his head to watch Nathan return to Harold, watches the quiet but thorough chewing out Nathan receives, and is startled to find himself suddenly in a staring contest with Harold.

Harold holds his gaze for a few minutes, every second ticking by overly loud in John's ear, then he shifts. Drops a couple of notes on the table and vanishes.

Well, John thinks, turning back to his stove and the next orders. It looks like he's in for some sauce experimentation and a conversation with Santo the Baker.

You can't have valued customers going away unsatisfied, after all.

****

The dog turns up early one morning when John's getting ready to take a produce delivery.

It's pretty dirty, but clearly well-trained, sitting patiently with its tongue lolling out and staring at John. He goes inside and comes out with half a pound of minute steak, tosses it to the dog, then takes his produce inside.

When Grace takes her I-Can't-Stand-These-Assholes-A-Minute-Longer break at 11, it's still out there.

'You go by the ASPCA and forget to tell us?' she ignores the omelette John had made in favour of a glazed doughnut one of her ardent and hopeless admirers brought her from Krispy goddamn Kreme. John just cannot understand why someone would try to woo a waitress with food, but people are strange. 'You really oughta leash him, Johnny-boy.'

'Not my dog,' John says calmly and eats the omelette himself.

When he locks up that night, though, the dog is _still_ sitting there. Its ears perk up when John steps into the street, and hell. He can feed it, give it a bath. Take it to the pound tomorrow.

'OK,' John clicks his tongue and the dog bounds over, tail whirling madly. 'But you're getting washed before I'm feeding you.'

The dog barks once, in what John's going to call agreement, and they go back to John's apartment together.

****

It takes John an entire week before he caves and gets Lionel to steal a support animal vest for Bear. Shantay's uncle, who haunts the diner from open to close anyway, agrees to pretend to be Bear's owner if there are any Health inspections. He even comes in the next day with a special pair of sunglasses and a white stick, so John gives him a double serve of bacon and starts making a banana cream pie for the afternoon, trying a mix of cinnamon and nutmeg to see how the girls like it.

Bear gets his own special sunlit spot by the register, dog bed made of newspapers for deniability in case of Health inspection, and three steak meals a day. John's no expert, but he doesn't think he's ever seen a happier dog.

Bear comes along with him to East River Park every Monday, and they do a loop of a few dozen blocks every evening before heading home.

Life is pretty good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I have no idea what eggs benedict are likely to cost in a new york diner. If It's a gross misrepresentation, let me know and I'll change it ^_^


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mention of murder of a child; no details, nothing onscreen but it's there.

Leon does an excellent job of looking after the diner's finances, though John has to make sure Grace is available to stand over him with a riding crop she purchased specially for the job every April.

'Dude,' Leon crams the final quarter of his club sandwich in his mouth and shoves his fries in front of Bear. He chews about five times, then just talks through the mess of turkey and radicchio and bacon-aioli like he doesn't think the food is worth his attention. 'You know you could lowball the tips on this thing, right? No one actually expects you to be honest. In fact, I have an opportunity a buddy of mine-'

'Leon,' John says patiently, using the half smile that really fucks with people's confidence. 'Plug the numbers in and try not to get on the wrong side of _another_ mob.'

Leon's mouth works in protesting motions for a minute or two, then he slumps over the formica of the booth's table. 'Fine. But so you know, _everyone_ lies on their taxes. You're basically thowing money away.'

'I've got good aim,' John replies, putting a plate of savoury pancakes next to the pile of receipts. 'Let me know which one you like best.'

John was particularly proud of the pulled pork, sage and bok choi one. It would make a great addition to the weekend breakfast/brunch menu, since the prep took about thirty seconds for a batch big enough for thirty pax. John's thinking of serving them with nanamitogarashi and kewpie mayo. Maybe tweaking the batter to use buckwheat flour to make them gluten-free too.

He's humming a riff on one of the six billion marching tunes forever stuck in his head when the bell over the front door rings.

'Sorry,' John turns away from the coffee machine to grin at whoever it is who's barged past the CLOSED sign. 'We're closed for ta-'

'My apologies,' Moneybags- _Harold_ says, already turning back to the door. 'I didn't realise.'

John can't let a valued regular like Harold wander off to the less than tender mercies of some other diner's eggs benedict, so he vaults the bench and slams a hand against the door before Harold can vanish off to an inferior breakfast.

'No problem,' John smiles down at Harold, eases into the lean so he's plastered against the plate glass. 'I was meaning to ask your opinion on my new baker.'

Harold blinks from behind approximately three coke bottles' worth of glass and wordlessly heads to his usual booth. Bear snuffles at Harold's ankle when he walks by, and Harold jumps several hundred points in John's estimation by pausing to give the dog a concerted and thorough petting.

He _had_ been meaning to check on Harold's reaction to the new baker; a kid about six years old from the Sudan who had magical fire hands when kneading which made her bread some sort of religious experience. And the Hollandaise had been adjusted with three varieties of thyme and the substitution of lime for lemon, so John was confident Harold was going to be prostrate at his feet in half an hour.

Not that that was somewhere he _wanted_ Harold. It was just that perfect food deserved acknowledgement.

'If you insist,' Harold says. 'Might I trouble you for-'

'Eggs bennedict,' John finishes, already halfway back to his kitchen. 'Coming right up, Harold. Leon! Get Harold some tea while I'm busy.'

The sound of Leon shrieking at Harold's addition of sugar to his green tea makes John chuckle as he wilts some baby spinach over the perfectly crisped bacon. He plates up, throws a pinch of dill over the eggs and slides out to present his masterpiece to Harold.

Harold shoots him a suspicious look, so John slips into the booth opposite Harold and folds his hands on the table. Harold carves a precise portion and chews with more care than John's seen most people treat their kids. He swallows, carves another slice of godlike bread and perfect eggs; repeat until done. John watches Harold's face as he eats. It's remarkably hard to read, though John is confident he sees a smile at halfway through the second egg.

Leon's gone back to his pancakes, and John is vaguely aware of him bitching about getting healthy options instead of cake-testing like the girls get, but his attention's solidly on Harold's face as he systematically samples every ingredient separately and in combination.

After the longest twenty minutes John's experienced in a long time, Harold sets his silverware down perfectly forty-five degrees from straight. He dabs the napkin on his lips, takes a sip of tea and looks up. He has the most penetrating gaze John has ever been subjected to. It feels like being taken to pieces, like Harold can see the whole of John's past written on his face.

John should probably hate it, but somehow the examination feels like benediction. He smiles as wide as he can, posture loosening without instruction from central command.

'Thoughts?' John lets his gaze dart to the plate, mopped of every scrap of food with greater attention than Harold usually exhibits. 'You were right, by the way; that baker was a hack. Charuni is _much_ better.'

Harold cocks his head and his gaze goes distant. John lets his own gaze sharpen; Harold takes excellent care with his appearance, but there's just a hint of discord in the line of his tie that John is trying not to interpret as distress.

'Most satisfactory, Mr Reese,' Harold says eventually, the ghost of a smile hovering on his lips. 'Perhaps I shall have to sample a wider selection of your menu in future.'

John laughs, throwing his head back. 'You're welcome here any time you want, Harold. I'll take it as a personal challenge to broaden your breakfast horizons.'

'Get a _room!_ ' Leon howls from his own booth, but Bear shoves his face into Leon's crotch with his soulful haven't-been-fed-in-days stare and Leon starts feeding him pieces of pancakes with an appalling lack of subtlety.

'You haven't got any allergies or intolerances I should know about?' John asks, ignoring his dog getting spoiled rotten in favour of watching Harold's face. 'I'd hate to give you hives with a quiche.'

Harold's lips purse a little, and John scrubs quiche off his mental list of Foods to Feed Harold.

'I dislike excessive dairy,' Harold reaches into a pocket and pulls out a billfold which is even fatter than John had expected from Moneybags Eggs Benedict. 'And I have no fondness for beets or the stronger fishes, but I have no allergies. I look forward to your attempts to surpass this meal, Mr Reese. Good day.'

John watches Harold walk out of his diner, already ten ideas in on options for the next time Harold comes in. He glances at the fifty lying perfectly aligned with the edge of the table and grins even harder.

He _likes_ Harold.

****

Of course, the next week is a nightmare. Lionel and Joss wind up chasing a kiddy-killer, and the tension bleeds through to all the girls as well as John. He tries to cheer everyone up with new and exciting pies, but the specter of poor little Flo is a palpable presence.

Joss catches a break after a couple of days, chases a lead down and winds up slamming Flo's parents' Super into a wall. He denies everything for a day, then breaks down sobbing and Joss closes the case with a bitter smile.

John closes off the diner to have a sort of memorial, and Flo's mother throws her arms around Joss and sobs her gratitude into Joss's shoulder. John's laid out a spread of sandwiches and liquor, and Flo's father has been making steady inroads into the tequila. John's been matching him shot for shot.

He knows violence is a part of human nature. People do terrible things to each other all the time, but it's always gutting when it happens to a kid.

John takes Flo's father out to the alley after a while, lets him scream his pain out and throw a punch or two. A hollow-eyed Lionel takes the man and his wife home after a patrol car stops to investigate, and John makes a mental note to deliver some care packages to the bereaved couple.

There's nothing else he can really do but feed them.

Bear curls up against John that night, but neither of them sleep well.


	5. Chapter 5

After the neighbourhood settles down (which takes only a few day, to John's lack of surprise but bitter disappointment in humanity), John spends extra hours in his kitchen toying with new breakfasts to try on Harold. 

At first, Harold only comes by every third or fourth day, so John has ample time to perfect his mango, mint and ricotta fritters, his star anise scones with fig jam and mascarpone, his hidden bacon pancake dippers and maple creme fraiche... 

It's the charcoaled zucchini, chevre and home-smoked paprika omelette which sparks Harold's daily visits, though, so John sets aside his sweet breakfast experiments in favour of challenging savoury ones. 

Fresh tea leaves in the polenta slice toast-substitute for a remake of Harold's beloved eggs benedict earn John a narrow-eyed appreciative glare when he peers through the service hatch, and John spends the rest of the day floating somewhere above the clouds. 

Grace and Judy spend nine minutes out of ten ribbing him about it, of course, but John is a benevolent boss and only makes them deep clean one of the deep fryers. 

The really filthy one, because he might be benevolent, but he isn't a _saint_. 

**** 

'It's becoming embarrassing.' 

John flips the six burgers on the grill, one at a time before looking up to raise an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth at Nathan. 

'Never would've picked you for a shrinking violet.' 

Nathan flashes a Hollywood smile and saunters over to John's ~~Harold~~ _experiment_ table. 

'I don't think I've ever seen Harold eat at the same place four days running,' Nathan picks up a bowl of fennel mashed potato and sniffs it, picks up one of the lopsided granny smith and parmesan English muffins John needs to tweak the dough for, leans over the as-yet-unassembled kimchi hash browns. 'Let alone this often.' 

John lifts a shoulder and starts plating burgers. 'I don't know if anyone told you this, Nathan, but I am a world-class chef.' 

Nathan barks a laugh and helps John transfer the plated burgers to the service hatch. 'You really are, and any time you change your mind about that rooftop restaurant I am already signing leases for you. But Harold doesn't stay loyal to chefs, no matter how good or inventive they are. Until you.' 

John doesn't even try to stifle the delighted grin. 'Mama always told me I was special.' 

Nathan barks a laugh, steals a plate of macaroons John's been toying with (lemon and grapefruit works well, melon and proscuitto less so) before crashing back through the door. John turns his attention back to Miss Fernandez's scrambled eggs and spends the rest of the day humming showtunes. 

**** 

'John?' 

John looks up from his stocktake; middle of the day in the middle of the week is a better time than most for the boring necessary tasks involved in running a moderately-popular diner in the busiest city in the world. Joss peers through the service hatch and waits until John closes the cool room before tilting her head at the main diner. 

John washes his hands and pushes through the doorway drying them on his apron to find Joss frowning down at a kid who is nine kinds of adorable and _obviously_ hers. 

'Yeah?' John smooths his face expressionless and looms just a little. 

'I hate to ask, John,' Joss says, turning and straightening her shoulders, hand going to rest unconsciously next to her sidearm. 'But we're in the middle of something and _someone_ -' she turns the fiercest mom-glare John's seen in fifteen years on her kid and he shrinks against the cracked vinyl. 'Decided to play hooky down at the arcade.' 

The kid glances up through his eyelashes first at his mother, then at John. John tilts his chin up and gives his scary grin and the kid's eyes widen. 

'School won't let him back, huh?' John's more familiar with the art of ditching class than anyone he knows. 'I can watch him. Maybe even teach him some skills.' 

Joss narrows her eyes. 'You are _not_ teaching my son to juggle knives, Reese. And _you_ are grounded for the next month, kiddo.' 

The kid – Taylor, Joss tells him before she shoots back out the door – keeps his eyes on John without blinking for an impressive time. He looks a little like some of the stunned bunnies John used to see on the roadside over in the Balkans. 

'So...' John steps closer to loom even harder. 'Taylor...' 

Taylor squares his shoulders and tilts his head back to return John's stare with interest. He sure is his mother's son, John grins. 'Yeah?' 

'What's your favourite food, Taylor?'

****

Taylor is utterly forbidden kitchen privileges, Reese decides after the third minor fire is out. Reese isn’t quite sure how Taylor managed to set a pie crust on fire, but some talent-curses cannot be foiled. He shoos Taylor into the diner instead and sets the kid to work making a new pot of coffee.

What Taylor lacks in kitchen nous, it turns out he makes up for in weapons-grade cute and laser-aim of said cute at the customers. When Reese retreats into the kitchen to get started on the late lunch/early dinner orders, leaving Taylor in Grace’s care, Taylor’s already up twenty bucks in tips from serving slices of pie and coffee.

Taylor’s also been sneaking Bear food, so the dog is his for _life_. Bear and Taylor together probably constitute some sort of adorability overload; the ladies from the over 60s stitch ‘n bitch circle won’t know what hit them and Grace’ll be picking hard candy wrappers out of the booth seats for a week.

John keeps an ear out for anything happening in the diner, but it’s all running smoothly. John turns his attention to the Harold Table, breaking a pork-and-sage savoury muffin open to smear a little apple butter on a piece.

John chews, thoughtfully, then discards the entire tray. Baked beans, maybe? It’ll be cool enough for hearty breakfasts soon. Smoked bones and ham hocks, bay leaves, and brussels sprouts. With cinnamon and crushed tomatoes. He could make a vegan option without the pork, too…

Belatedly, John realises the diner is suspiciously quiet; so quiet he can hear Bear panting.

His first thought is “armed robbery”. There’ve been a few junkies and desperadoes who’ve tried, but not in the last few months. John tends to feed them and ignore threats if he’s alone, feed them and disarm them if the girls are around. Once or twice he’s had to run them out, but the diner’s a cop diner now. Tends to put off all but the dumbest criminals.

It doesn’t seem like there’s anyone waving a weapon around, John decides. He straightens his apron and pushes the door open to step into the diner, body language carefully non-threatening just in case.

Taylor’s holding a half-full pot of coffee and staring at a white guy about John’s age who’s just...standing in the doorway, clipboard under one arm. There are a few solo diners nursing cups of coffee and slices of pie and doing their damndest to keep their heads down. John can’t see Grace anywhere.

‘Ah,’ the white guy smiles like he thinks he’s a shark. ‘Mr Reese. I’m from the New York City Health Department.’

‘Spot inspection?’ John relieves Taylor of the coffee and herds him into a booth. ‘Knock yourself out.’  
The health inspector smiles a bit harder, gaze flicking over Taylor in a way that has John shifting his weight and letting his own smile harden.

‘You know the state’s got labour laws for minors,’ the health inspector says. ‘And mandatory school attendance.’

‘Huh,’ John folds his arms. ‘Didn’t realise the Health Department had branched out to cover that.’

The health inspector tilts his head in acknowledgement. ‘Maybe. But we _do_ get to make the call on animals in food service areas.’

John glances at Bear, sitting alert and ears-forward on his pile of newspapers.

‘ADA says I can’t refuse service dogs entry,’ John nods at Bear. ‘And ADA trumps city ordinances. Dog hasn’t been in the kitchen or behind the counter; it’s not a health risk.’

The health inspector narrows his eyes, attention finally entirely on John. ‘We’ll see.’

He takes out his clipboard and starts checking boxes, poking ostentatiously around the diner. John turns to Taylor to make sure the kid’s OK and gets a reassuring eye roll.

‘Where’d Grace go?’

‘Some guy came in,’ Taylor shrugs and starts playing with the sugar. ‘All crying and stuff. She went out the front a few minutes ago with him.’

John wonders who that might be, but it can wait. He watches the health inspector make himself as big and obvious as he can, trying to rattle John. Assert his authority, small though it is.

It takes a lot more than this guy has to rattle John, though, so he just waits until the man finishes up behind the counter. He spares Taylor a last glance, but the kid really is fine, then follows the health inspector into the hospital-grade sanitised kitchen.

It’s a good hour later that the health inspector finally makes a show of capping his pen and closing his clipboard.

‘A Grade,’ the health inspector says, grudgingly. ‘And I suppose I can overlook the exploitation of a minor just this once.’

‘Much appreciated,’ John says, tone as mild as he can make it. None of his business though it was, a city official making a complaint to child services would carry weight. Polite and smart was the only way to go. ‘Can I offer you a slice of pie to go?’

The health inspector hands over John’s rating and turns down the pie. His footsteps drag as John herds him out past Grace and Taylor, then he’s out on the street again.

Grace raises an eyebrow and twists her mouth like she’s accidentally swigged grapefruit juice instead of apple. John twitches a shoulder at her and sticks the A-Grade in the window under a poster for T-Bone’s band.

Joss turns up just after eight, tired and rumpled but victorious. John sends her and Taylor home with an assortment from the Harold Table and instructions to review, then he locks up for the night. It’s early, but the place is empty and John could do with an early night.

He and Bear walk the long way home, eat several pounds of kung pow chicken and mu shu, then go to sleep. John lies down and thinks of new dishes and Harold’s startled smile, and Bear dreams of chasing something.

John smiles, imagining it’s the health inspector.


	6. Chapter 6

Zoe’s a regular when she’s in the city, which is usually; this _is_ New York, after all. But John’s only ever known her to turn up flying solo. She claims she doesn’t want any of her crowd (John’s old not-quite-but-they-claimed-him-anyway crowd) horning in on her dessert venue of choice. He’d be annoyed at her keeping business from him, but the point of the diner isn’t money and that crowd would probably try and cash in on John’s apparent fall from grace. More trouble than it would be worth; John’s already got Nathan harassing him to branch out into haute cuisine, or at least the prohibitively expensive Manhattan eateries.

 _There’s value in holding unknown cards, **John**_ , Zoe’d said once, years ago. John knows what she means, but he’s always felt most of the pleasure’s in the sharing. But life would be awfully dull if everyone was the same, John thinks and grins as he kneads the base for another pie. Nutmeg banoffee this time; he likes to keep Zoe guessing every so often and she’s about due for another visit.

Zoe always turns up alone until the day she doesn’t.

John emerges from mixing a half dozen variations on a custard pie (cinnamon-nutmeg, eggnog, a vegan almond one which seems to be working well, brandied cumquats, whiskey and chocolate, and chilli chocolate caramel) to find Shantay and Grace huddled by the coffee machine and staring in clear judgemental ire at the booth Zoe’s sitting in.

‘Oh, boss!’ Shantay says when she notices him, trying to throw herself in his line of sight. ‘I think I need that white choc mud cake like right now! The most powerful craving; I must have wicked bad PMT!’

John smirks at her. ‘And here I thought you went on the implant thing. Why are you trying to distract me?’

Grace draws in a breath through her nose that sounds like she’s about to belt out her Broadway solo. John takes a step back because he’s never been keen on loud noises.

‘Hey, Michelinmart!’ Zoe raises a hand and waves John over with a wide smile. ‘What’ve you got today?’

John gives Shantay and Grace an amused glance, then wanders over to Zoe and her friend. ‘I’ve got a batch of mojito bran muffins should be ready in a few. Or the hidden bacon pancake dippers have been popular.’

Zoe’s friend gives John a once-over that makes him feel like he’s owed a drink or three, then she snorts. ‘Hipster diner? _This_ is what you thought’d change my life?’

John gives her a long, smiling look. She doesn’t seem fazed. Gorgeous enough to be used to everyone staring at her, John notes. Knows how to handle herself; there’s muscle and training beneath her peasant blouse and skinny jeans. She cocks an eyebrow at him, the derision in her eyes shifting to an interested challenge that owes more to the sparring ring than the bedroom. John grins and shifts his stance.

‘Oh my god, _no_ ,’ Zoe twitches a hand to shoo John away from her. ‘I want food, not fight club! Get back in the kitchen and make us some pie!’

John’s mamma raised a gentleman, so he makes his exit, albeit in a slow swaggering way. He can feel the assessing gaze of Zoe’s friend burning into his back all the way past the swing door.

Zoe’s friend seems like the Pounds Of Steak and Liquor type. Not really breakfast food, and definitely not Date Food. He needs something the ladies can share, but something that won’t send Zoe’s friend right out the door. The Whiskey Chocolate Pie, he decides, carving an oversized portion onto a plate. Bitter and biting, with only a little sweetness to confuse the palate.

John drizzles a little whiskey caramel sauce over the pie and grabs two forks as he drifts past Shantay to deliver his offering. Zoe waves a hand at her friend in a “you go ahead” gesture, then grins as her friend freezes up at the first forkful.

‘Told you he was good,’ Zoe carves her own piece off and eats it with the sort of appreciation John _lives_ for.

‘Shaw,’ Zoe’s friend says, tapping her fork against the plate and glaring up at John. ‘Dr Sameen Shaw.’

‘John Reese,’ John offers a hand and grins as Shaw squeezes his hand like it’ll juice. ‘Owner and proprietor.’

‘Hm,’ Shaw gives him another narrow-eyed glare and turns her attention wholly to Zoe and the pie. John beams and returns to the kitchen.

****

Shaw, John learns over the next several visits, was about twelve seconds from stabbing someone very important at the fundraiser for her hospital Zoe was trawling for contacts when Zoe had seen her and promptly adopted her. This had, according to both women, saved the fundraiser from featuring on every newspaper and Shaw from an irritating job search.

Zoe pouts just enough to get John making elaborate treats for her over what she terms Shaw and John’s “murdertwin bromance” but otherwise throws herself wholeheartedly behind John expanding his social circle.

‘You’re happi- _er_ these days,’ Zoe says, licking delicately at the cream cheese frosting on her fork, carrot cake lying ignored in a way that makes John sigh just a little. ‘But that’s hardly saying much. You do realise this diner isn’t your entire world, don’t you?’

John’s not entirely sure how to answer that, so he shrugs a shoulder and buys a share in a struggling gym two streets over. He and Shaw make a standing date to terrify the local bruisers throwing each other around the ring every Wednesday night as Bear watches, doggy devotion aimed squarely at Shaw before all three of them head back to the closed diner to eat steaks the size of their heads. Zoe rolls her eyes, but seems satisfied enough.

It’s the day after Shaw landed a rib-cracking kick that left John almost proposing to her from where he landed at her feet when Harold marches through the diner door after midday for the first time ever. He’s wearing the sort of suit Zoe used to try and shoehorn John into before public appearances, though on him it looks… natural. John grins reflexively before the tightness of Harold’s mouth registers.

‘Hey Harold,’ John says, left hand ghosting over his ribs just hard enough to feel the throb. ‘Decided to branch out from the breakfast menu at last?’

Harold turns his unblinking stare on John, a line appearing between his eyebrows as he gives the impression of looking right down to John’s _cells_ with the sweep of his gaze.

‘Mr Reese,’ Howard says, mouth turning down. ‘What happened?’

‘He blinked,’ Shaw drawls from the floor beside Bear’s bed, smirking and toasting the pair of them with her coffee mug full of whiskey. ‘So I get free steak for a month.’

‘You get free steak anyway, Shaw,’ John says; would be grinning if he wasn’t wary of splitting his lip open again. She really is the most amazing sparring partner ever. ‘The booze you’re paying for, though.’

Shaw’s smirk widens under Harold’s narrow stare and she kicks her legs out and leans back in a display of catlike unconcern, fingers smoothing lazy patterns over Bear’s fur. Something in Harold’s face relaxes and he gives her a polite nod before returning his attention to John.

‘My dinner plans were… unexpectedly cancelled,’ Harold says in the charmingly fussy way of his. ‘Might you have a table open?’

John raises his eyebrows and turns to give the empty diner a thoughtful look before making a split-second decision.

‘Harold,’ he says, grinning with the intact side of his mouth. ‘I can even supply a dining companion. What’s your pleasure?’

Harold pinks faintly, but doesn’t object. Shaw snorts and throws back the last of her drink before rolling smoothly to her feet and clicking her tongue at Bear. The dog leaps up, tail wagging like a helicopter rotor.

‘On that note, boys,’ she shrugs into her coat, ‘I’m leaving. And stealing your dog for the weekend, Reece.’

She’s out the door seconds later, Bear frolicking at her heels like doggy Christmas has come early. John considers feeling betrayed by his dog, but Harold’s right there, looking fussy and a little uncomfortable and in need of the patented Reese Day-Fixing Feed.

‘I’ve not had my own dinner yet, and there’s a lasagne and a bottle of chianti that I can hear calling my name,’ John suggests when Harold hasn’t placed an order a full minute after Shaw’s departure. ‘Care to go halves?’

Harold studies John for a handful of heartbeats, then some of the tension in his shoulders eases.

‘Mr Reese,’ he says, turning for his usual booth. ‘I am _agog_ to find out what your spin on lasagne is. And I’d be delighted for the company.’

John waltzes into the kitchen to set the lasagne to heat, throws together a green salad and grabs the chianti, a waiter’s friend and a pair of glasses, depositing them in front of Harold before flipping the sign and locking the door.

Whatever it was that put that tense, unhappy look on Harold’s face seems to have been at least temporarily forgotten, and John lets himself bask in the glow of that knowledge as Harold wrestles the cork from the bottle, setting it aside to breathe.

John’s convinced his pulled beef lasagne with five cheese bechamel will finish the job.

And if not, well. He'll just have to try again.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback welcomed, and I've only the vaguest idea where this is headed, so if you want to request something I'm open to it ^_^


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